The Courtship Rituals of Asgardians and Super Spies
by tonystarktheautobot
Summary: Working at SHIELD, it's a thankless job. Nick Fury realized long ago he'd die alone, and Maria Hill is starting to realize the same. That's when they're hit with the surprises of their lives: requests of courtship from Asgard's finest. Nothing's simple or easy when warriors and spies love one another. Then, nothing worth having was ever easy. Nick Fury/Heimdall, Maria/Sif.
1. The Proposal

This story is set in my Metal Heart universe, post MH, and goes along-side my upcoming "Tales of the Heroes of Midgard" series. But the Avengers and co. aren't really a big staple of this one; this focuses on SHIELD agents and a handful of Asgardians. Enjoy!

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_Nick Fury is in his robe, settling down to relax and read a good book before bed, when his doorbell chimes. What the hell? He cocks an eyebrow, glancing to the front end of his house. Nobody comes here without clearing it with SHIELD first. Nobody even knows where this place is!_

_Frowning, he sets the book aside and draws his gun out of the bedside table, moving towards the stairs with quick, steady precision. Then, he backtracks heading to the back of the house, quietly opening the porch door so he can circle the intruder around from behind –_

_He doesn't get that far. As soon as he opens the door, he's greeted by a stranger in gold armor standing on his back porch. He doesn't seem to have a weapon of any kind, but he's clearly powerful, and he's a big guy to boot. Fury's got his gun on him in half a second, fuming, wondering how the hell this guy got here, who the hell is he –_

_"Who are you and what the hell are you doing at my house?"_

_"I am Heimdall, Gatekeeper of Asgard," The man begins, and he – he fucking kneels. The hell? "And I come before you to request a boon."_

_"A… what now?" Frowning, Fury keeps the gun up, but he is beginning to see this probably isn't a threat. Asgard. Great. Like those immortal assholes haven't been causing him enough trouble lately._

_"A boon." Heimdall, whoever that is, asks again._

_"Uh huh." Snorting, Fury keeps his gun trained between the man's eyes, which are merely inches away from the barrel of his gun. Is this guy asking to get shot? Would a bullet to the head even kill an Asgardian? For a moment, Fury wonders if he's really in deep shit here, and considers pressing the button on the watch on his wrist that will bring SHIELD down on this place in full force._

_"Fear not, I mean no harm. I come not as a vassal of Asgard, or in service to her King, but for my own desires."_

_"Is that supposed to mean shit to me?" This is very confusing. He can honestly say, with all the weird shit that has happened in his life, having a handsome – and yes he is very handsome – immortal warrior pop up on his back porch and kneel in front of him, well, that's a new one._

_"It means that I am only here to speak for myself, and to ask that you grant me an honor which would lift my heart."_

_Fury keeps the gun right where it is. But he maybe, just maybe, might be feeling extremely out of his depth right now. "Okay. Fine. Ask away." This can't get any weirder right?_

_Heimdall smiles, the fucker, and the look is radiantly beautiful on his face. "Would you, Nicholas Fury of Midgard, grant me the honor of allowing me to court you?"_

_Well, damn. He was wrong._

Nick Fury never wanted to be a soldier.

War was such a small, simple thing on the television screen. Triumphant music playing, an inspirational voiceover leading the charge as courageous, brave Americans fought for good and freedom and everything American was meant to stand for. And always, standing at the front, was Captain America. Every week Nick would watch these men, these heroes; these soldiers win empty battles and easily defeat the enemy, and it was never questioned that what they were doing was right. What they were doing was good.

So, how could Nick not look at that, at the grand potency of that, and not want it? How could he not look around his life, his home, his neighborhood, his world, and want something better? To defend what good was there, and stomp the evil out, just like Captain America? No, he didn't want to be a soldier. He wanted to be a hero. Enlisting simply seemed like the best, perhaps the only, way to do so.

They sent him to Vietnam. Quickly, Nick Fury found that the greatest evil there was that which his fellow soldiers and he brought with them. War was no longer a simple thing in a little black and white box. It was red, bloody red, it was every color and sound right in your face and on your hands and –

Nick Fury came home to a country in chaos, to a generation in revolt, the ideal of the "American" life or what it supposedly was uprooted and revealed for the poisonous weed it was. He saw a man in a protest rally burn an effigy of Captain America. Couldn't say he blamed him.

His own soul was in turmoil. This was all a lie. All of it. The prosperity, the peace, the goodness. Nick looked around and the only good and justice was in that little television box, in somebody else's life, on another world somewhere. It wasn't here. He couldn't find it. He couldn't find peace anywhere. Couldn't find peace inside himself.

After the war, he had a chance to leave. To not re-enlist. To step out of the government, out of the military, and never look back. He stood in his room in his grandmother's house looking at the paperwork with tears in his eyes, his old Cap poster still on the wall beneath a vintage "Uncle Sam" recruitment poster and there was a vicious part of himself that wanted to tear it all down.

But he didn't. He re-enlisted, and he worked hard, worked his way through the ranks, as deep and dark as he could. Espionage became his priority. It was his talent, keeping his mouth shut, noticing what other people wouldn't talk about. He could read other people, know them inside out. It was what kept him alive all that time.

The further in he went, the more he lost; of himself, his old life, family and friends. They were tucked away into the old dusty corners of his heart, where he could look back on them from time to time, but he never sought those people out again. He fought, and he fought, and he played the game, and he kept pushing, and pushing.

He's done terrible things. In war, and at home. He's lied, cheated, killed, stolen. And he'd do it all again. Because this is how the game is played, now. These are the rules that have been laid down. He knows how it goes, he can strategize with the best of them.

Now, he's the Director of the most powerful espionage agency in the world, answerable to a select few. Now, he stands upon a cold distant precipice, so much power at his fingertips, and he never, _never_ forgets, the feeling of standing on his own street corner feeling lost and homesick and alone. He never forgets a life of wishing for things that were never real. And he sure as hell never forgets the war.

Nick Fury never wanted to be a soldier. He wanted to help people, to be a protector, a guardian, a hero. But this world doesn't allow for heroes anymore. To protect the world from monsters he had to become one himself. He cut out his heart and soul and sealed them somewhere far away where he'd never remember what it was to be a fifteen year old boy with ideals and dreams. To ever wish to be someone who could stand in the light and be proud of who he'd become. Someone who might be able to escape all this one day, to have a family, to grow old with someone.

Those are simply idle fantasies he'll have to learn to forget.

Nick no longer holds any delusions of a possible love life in his future.

It just isn't in the job description. Sure, he has agents who have personal lives, families and lovers, but none of them are the Director of SHIELD. He will always have a target on his back, even if he stopped at this moment and walked away from it all. No one will be safe with him, ever, and that's presuming he'd have the goddamn time to actually have a love life, or care for a family.

The harsh truth is that he doesn't. So no, Nick Fury has never considered love or romance in his future.

Needless to say "courting" was never even in the picture.

The very next day, Nick is a billowing trench coat of anger sauntering through the Avenger's mansion, with a dreadful scowl fixed upon his face. Tony takes one look at him and makes a beeline for the basement, snatching a donut from the coffee table before scrambling away. Steve, being the responsibility worry wart that he is, catches up and offers his concern. But once he's informed that everything is fine, no, there's no danger, this a personal matter, he heads for the hills, too.

That is when Nick throws open the door to Thor's room, and sees him sitting facing Clint, cross legged on the floor, painting each other's nails.

"Oh, fuck me," Clint groans, shoulders drooping.

"Director!" Thor of course is oblivious. He's also beaming ear to ear and holding up his right hand, which is now painted red to match his cape. "You are most welcome here! Clint is teaching me of the traditions of my new home. Would you care to join us?"

"Thanks but… no thanks."

"You sure? I've got black?" The archer seems to have found his funny bone again, though his smirk is a little on the embarrassed side.

"May I ask why you're here doing… this?" As he takes a seat nearby, Fury gestures at the man. "Was there a bet involved? Did you get drunk?"

"I really truly want, with every fiber of my being, to avoid Loki, and this is the one place I'm positive he's never going to pop into." The raw truth in that statement dampens the playful mood, as does the pout that appears on Thor's face. "Uh, sorry, Thor."

"No, I understand." He nods. "And tis true. My brother has been avoiding me of late."

Well. That's a can of worms Nick Fury has no damn time for. "Look, I'm sympathetic and all, but I'm not here to chat. I need to know everything you know about an Asgardian named Heimdall."

"Heimdall?" Somehow, Thor manages to grow even more jovial. "A good friend, and a great ally! He is the Gatekeeper of Asgard, the most trusted of my father's warriors. He is a good man. Why do you ask this?"

Fury, eyes narrowed, has kept his keen gaze on Thor this whole time – but there's no lie in his face. There's never any lie in his face. Thor isn't just practically incapable of lying, he never even thinks to do so.

"Has Asgard been contacting SHIELD?" Clint, interest piqued, has stalled in his artistry with the nail polish. "What's going on?"

"No, it's –" Sighing, Nick puts a hand on his face. What was he thinking? This is a horrible idea. "It's not SHIELD business. Forget it." He stands to go before anything else can go wrong, but he's stopped by a hand.

"I know we are not quite friends, Director Fury, but I would help thee if I can."

Another sigh. How can anyone turn down such heartfelt kindness? "Your friend popped up in my backyard yesterday evening."

"He what?" Clint, leaping to his feet, is halfway to his bow already, as if he can go back in time and leap to his ex-boss's aid. Thor, too, looks concerned, and is perhaps remembering that for all intents and purposes, Earth and Asgard aren't exactly friends.

"Was anyone else with him?"

Fury shakes his head. "No, just him." Turning around, he continues. "He told me his name, and about being Gatekeeper of Asgard. Then he started spewing all this bullshit about a – a boon – and _courtship_ or some shit."

The room has gone silent.

"Courtship that's, - what?" Clint lets out a baffled laugh. "Like the stuff from a Jane Austen novel right? People doing all this fancy formal shit before they tie the knot?"

"I do not know of this Jane Austen," Thor turns to tell him. "But on Asgard, courtship is a valued tradition. Not all participate, but many in the royal and noble bloodlines do so."

"That includes your buddy Heimdall?"

Thor nodded. "Yes. What did he say to you exactly?"

The room is a little hot. That's it. Because Nick Fury does not blush.

"He – asked me for the 'honor' of allowing him to court me."

The room is silent again, but that's only because Clint looks to be hurting himself with the effort of keeping in his laughter.

"Barton," Fury starts through clenched teeth. "Say what you're thinking and I'll find a way to make you regret it."

"I'm sure you will but – ohmygodd - !" That is when, incapable of holding it in any longer, Clint doubled over and let out an incoherent stream of chortling and half-finished sentences. And Fury turned around and left.

In his office on the Helicarrier that night, Fury remains, embroiled in work long after his typical hours. It's not that he's avoiding going home, of course not. He's just getting ahead. There's always plenty do to for a super spy after all.

Except for the fact that, well, there's really not all that much extra work to do right now. With the Avengers around, the typical threats SHIELD faces has been cut down almost by half. Even with the added Mutant "crisis" trouble has still been at an all-time low for the decade. There's not much for Fury to do but twiddle his thumbs.

Well, he wanted the Avengers to be heroes, didn't he? Damn if he didn't get his wish.

So, Fury leaves his office in a huff and storms the decks instead, scouring the ranks for something, anything to do. Leaving vicious critiques and quaking recruits behind wherever he went, Fury stalked the whole ship for two hours. Until Maria Hill found him.

"Is there a reason you've been terrifying half the agents on this ship?" She asks, arms crossed, barring his way forward.

"Not half," he retorts. "They're all scared out of their wits but some of them are well-trained enough to hide it."

"The point being," Maria, ignoring his attempts to side step her, keeps up with his pace, "why are you still here skulking around?"

"My ship, my business." He snaps back.

"It's SHIELD's ship, which also makes it my business."

But she's not asking for SHIELD, they both know that. No, this is as close to "friendship" as these two will ever come. Veiled attempts at concern, concealed as they must always be. Anything closer, anything more open, creates risks.

Finally, Fury slows to a halt. "It's complicated."

"Un-complicate it."

A joke; something he would always say whenever the science types tried talking over his head, giving him "it's complicated" or "it's complex mathematics" or otherwise trying to avoid explaining in detail what they – or the people they answered to - didn't want him to know. He knows the game. So does she.

"I may have had an Asgardian warrior pop up out of nowhere in my backyard and ask to – I can't believe I'm fucking saying this – _court_ me."

Agent Hill doesn't flinch, doesn't even blink an eye. No, she just raises an eyebrow. "You, too?" In the stunned silence which follows, Maria tells him to buck up and go home, and stop venting his frustration upon the poor newbie agents.

It's not that Nick doesn't want this.

Sure he does. He'll be the first to admit that the job is lonely, and he's human after all. He's got desires of his own. What he wouldn't give for the time and energy to go out and meet somebody for coffee once in a while, or even just a weekend fuck from time to time. It would sure do wonders for his temperament.

But who can a super spy trust in the long term? Who would be safe when all was said and done? Nick Fury can't ever let his guard down, he can't ever stop being the Director of SHIELD. It's all too risky. Too time consuming. Dangerous for everyone involved.

It would be foolish to get his hopes up.

Nick goes home, frowning and grumbling all the while. It's the expression of one ready to quit the universe, to throw up the white flag and be done, but the look belied a very different range of emotions. Hope, despair, nervousness, excitement, a barrel of contradictions he hadn't felt the like of since he was a boy. It was foolish, stupid, to be so hung up on this, on a fairy tale. A handsome warrior god from a far-away land swooping down from above to "court" the lowly mortal? Yeah, Nick laughs, right. He must've been dreaming.

What kind of warrior God would look at all of humanity and pick him, anyway?

He's a weary old man, after all, a battered and scarred ruin long emptied of any human feeling, a mere vessel for action and decision bereft of the joys and wonders of the soul. He doesn't have the luxury of all of that. If for the merest second he took a moment to truly feel, to remember what it was to really be human, he might just break. Might even cry.

Instead, he reads. Inserts himself into these tales in which the heroes always win and good always triumphs without ever having to compromise themselves, their light. Where the dichotomy of good and evil doesn't allow for a man such as Nick Fury to exist. And it is in that forgetfulness, in that blissful emptiness in which he does not exist, which lets him relax and simply feel for a while – without feeling all the pains and aches of his life, and the days to come.

Collapsing in his living room, Fury lets his head hang for a moment, allows himself to feel tired. The aches seep into his bones. Old wounds tremble. He's starved, but much too exhausted to cook anything or even stand and hobble to the phone. So he slumps back into the chair, reaches to his side table, and picks up the book he was reading the night before.

For a few minutes, he's entranced by the words and their movement, by a fantasy far away.

Then there is a knock at the door.

Fury freezes; his eye goes wide, and he glances towards the front. It couldn't be. He stands and sets the book aside, grabs his gun. But before he starts moving he hesitates. This is all feeling very familiar. Is he just going to repeat his actions? No, Fury decides, frowning, he's going to take a more direct approach. He's going to face this guy and tell him to fuck off and end this foolishness once and for all!

So, gun in tow, Fury storms to the front door, throws it open, and –

He's not there.

Suddenly, Fury finds himself grimacing and gesturing angrily at empty space, a gun drawn on thin air, and finds himself frustrated further with the empty display. Now, he's all worked up with no one to vent it on.

Fuming, Fury slams the door and turns around – and there's a three course meal sitting on his kitchen counter, fresh and steaming hot.

He's got his gun up in no time, scanning the room for anyone at all, but there's nothing. Just a magically appearing dinner plate and a card next to it. Fury ignores both of these, pointedly, for forty five minutes, as he canvases his yard and all three levels of his house something near to ten times. Then, and only then, does he return to the kitchen. And promptly sweep the food and the card into the trashcan.

The next morning, he finds a pile of pancakes and a heap of bacon with a glass of orange juice, on a tray on his bathroom counter. He tosses the whole thing out his window, and the satisfying sound of shattering glass cools his irritation for a while.

But it keeps happening. Every day around mealtimes something shows up out of nowhere. It's never just a small meal, either, but rather a feast he could never hope to finish even on a good day. A whole roast turkey with potatoes and green beans one night, an entire pizza and a 12 liter of soda another. It continues, day after day, for two weeks.

Then Fury goes back to the Avengers Mansion.

"You," He starts through gritted teeth, pointing at Thor, "have got to make it stop!"

"Make what stop?" Tony, from his place slumped across the living room couch, perks up. "What's stopping? I swear I'm not at fault this time."

"He's yelling at Thor, not you," Natasha tells him with a dry smirk. She's on the other end of the couch, Tony's feet in her lap, switching channels with the TV remote. Once she settles on Scyfy channel, which is planning a back-to-back marathon of the Resident Evil movies, she sets the remote down and starts messaging Tony's feet.

"Oh, good," Tony replies, letting out an obscene groan.

"Make any more uncomfortable noises and this stops."

"I can't help that you have magical hands."

"My hands aren't magic." She smiles at the comment, though. "You just overwork yourself too much. Take it easy."

"Says the super spy who never sleeps."

"I sleep. Eventually."

While the two of them are having their inane conversation, Fury has continued yelling at Thor for the same amount of time. Thor, who appears for all intents and purposes completely unbothered, just very confused and somewhat concerned.

"How do I make this guy back off?" Fury finally finishes, lifting a hand to his forehead. "Where's the cancel button on this courtship thing?"

"I do not believe this is courtship," Thor starts, ignoring Tony's surprised squawk of "courtship!?" followed by Natasha cursing in Russian and insisting he stop squirming. "While food does have a place in our rituals, the… persistence and repetitive nature implies, to me, that this is an attempt at apology."

"Wait, he's sorry?" Fury gives a huff, almost laughing. "What happened to the 'honor' of courting me? He lost interest so soon?" It figures, he lets himself think, ignoring the sharp stab of pain behind his rib cage.

"Can we rewind to the part about Fury being courted?" Tony, who is all but ignoring Natasha, tries to turn and face the two of them, but the spy's death-grip on his ankles makes it so he's become something of a pretzel shape.

"You misunderstand." Thor continues. "He is not apologizing for his desire. Heimdall must be under the impression that he has wronged you, and is attempting to redeem himself. In Asgard, preparing a fine meal for another is the greatest form of sincere apology. It takes time and dedication, and personal knowledge of the person's tastes."

"I'm not here for a cultural lesson, Thor," Fury sighs. "Just tell me how to make it stop."

"You must eat one of his meals, of course." The Asgardian replies with a tone that makes it sound oh so obvious. "Such an action implies trust, and forgiveness, as you have accepted the gift and acknowledged your faith in the other person, for you have eaten of a meal you have not prepared."

"Seriously! I'm right here!" Tony, now attempting to crawl off the sofa and join the conversation, has been waylaid by a determined teammate.

"You asked me to help with your muscle pain, I am going to help with your muscle pain!" Natasha insists.

"Forget I asked! Let go!"

"Stop prying into other people's business and be still already!"

"So, that's it. Eat a meal, the apologies stop." Sighing, Fury lets out a laugh. "Sounds easy enough."

"That should end the courtship as well, I imagine." Thor continues. "If you have accepted his courtship. Or did you turn him down?"

Fury freezes. "Is that important?"

"A courtship offered must be accepted or declined, in no unclear terms. Such ambiguity has lead to many tragedies in Asgard's past." Thor, now frowning himself, raises an eyebrow. "You… did respond to his request?"

Nick Fury does not fidget. He just frowns a little, and ignores the rising feeling of immaturity inside him. Right now, he feels very much like a young man in front of his elder, not a government agent talking to a co-worker. Granted, Thor is much older than him… technically.

"Well, Nicky?" Tony grunts from the couch, fighting a chokehold. He's got a hand tied up in Natasha's hair, and despite their rough tones of voices, both are grinning ear to ear. "Did you break your poor suitor's heart? Put him out of his misery?"

"I… did not respond. Verbally." He starts. That doesn't seem to be enough for any of them, as they're all still staring, even Natasha, waiting for more. "… I shot at him."

"You shot him!?"

"At him!" Fury insists, throwing out his hands. "What was I supposed to do? A fucking alien teleports into my goddamn backyard and – and starts requesting boons and all this medieval shit – yeah, I shot at him!"

"And then what?" Thor asks.

"Then – nothing." Fury throws up his arms. "He backed off and disappeared in this gold glow, the Bifrost I imagine. I haven't heard or seen him since."

"Then, I imagine he believes his suit to be denied." Thor replies. "All you must do, is partake of a single meal he offers you. This will right any wrongs between you, and restore his honor. Then you shall hear no more of him."

Fury returns home that night, keeping Thor's words in mind. At dinner, yet another finely made meal appears on his kitchen counter, out of nowhere. All he has to do is eat it and this will all be over. It's as simple as that, he tells himself, standing in his enormous, empty house, three stories and twenty rooms and so many acres of land for one man and all the belongings of a long, lonely lifetime. He stands in the kitchen and stares at the countertop. Imagines what Heimdall might have looked like, making it. What it might have been like, to see him make it, here, in this kitchen, in this home. Together.

He goes to bed. Leaves the dinner plate untouched, and doesn't eat a thing.

In the morning, he doesn't find any meal prepared for him. There's no note, no plate, no sign of anything. For a terrible, heart-wrenching moment, Nick wonders if Thor had been wrong, and perhaps he had simply ignored Heimdall so long the man had given up on apologies. Then, he asks himself why those thoughts bother him so, why he's suddenly feeling tight-chested and out of breath.

He goes to work, shoving all his thoughts aside, cursing himself for allowing such a foolish distraction for so long.

After work, on his way home, he receives a text message.

FRIEND FURY. The message comes a number he doesn't recognize, but a quick check reveals the phone is in the Avengers Mansion. TIS I THOR. HOW ARE YOU THIS DAY.

Fury doesn't send text messages. He has nobody to send them to. His contact list contains emergency numbers, co-worker phones, things he needs for SHIELD business. In fact he's not sure he's ever sent a text in his life.

Fury stares at the screen for a minute, before delicately typing: Fine. What do you want.

He keeps on heading home, walking out of the SHIELD building towards his vehicle, ready to be gone, away from all this. His phone beeps again: I HAVE SPOKEN TO YOUR WOULD-BE SUITOR. SHOULD YOU WISH, HE WOULD DESIRE TO MEET WITH YOU AND DISCUSS YOUR SITUATION PROPERLY.

Suddenly, a flash of heat lights up his skin, tingles and burns pleasantly. A foolish, childish reaction. This isn't something he should encourage. He shoves his phone back into his pocket, ignoring the message. Five minutes later, he sighs and pulls it back out.

He sends the message: All right, tell him where I'll be. Then, he names a local restaurant he's always liked, and stuffs the phone back in his pocket.

This way, he can tell Heimdall to his face to leave him alone. It's the proper way to do it after all. End things formally, face to face. That's the only reason he's agreed to this. Definitely.

It's called The Hibernian, and it's an Irish Pub. Not exactly Fury's favorite place to eat. The Irish are known for their drinks, not their food, after all, and he's never been much of a drinker. But if he's about to turn this guy down, he at least wants him to be comfortable. Asgardians love bars, right? It's not exactly Norse, but it will have to do.

The building is a tall, dark mahogany monstrosity on the side of the road, an antiquated sight next to more modern shops and cafes. Inside, the light is dim and the rooms loud, filled with the echo of sports games coming out of TV screens and the cacophony of the tavern scene on a weeknight. It's subdued, but lively. All the furniture is old and wooden, and every wall is lined with bookshelves. The atmosphere, being in a warm, homey place surrounded by books and good conversation; that is what really draws Fury here.

He sits in a back corner, orders a coke, and waits. Twenty two minutes later, he sees the man he's waiting for enter the room.

Clearly Heimdall made a detour somewhere, because he's not wearing his Asgardian armor anymore. No, he's in jeans, jeans that appear to be a few sizes too small or simply designed to be a tight fit. They fall low on his hips, the edges of the bottom rolled up over designer dress shoes that Fury knows had to have come from Tony Stark's closet. His shirt, meanwhile, is a fine pristine white button up, the first and last buttons purposefully left undone. This man would look for all the world like just another patron at the bar, if not for the shimmering gold eyes which meet Fury's dead on from across the room.

Take it in, old man. Fury tells himself firmly as Heimdall approaches. Enjoy it while it lasts, because this is going to end.

"Good evening, Director." The voice of a God if ever there was one; a powerful, resonating tone touched by silk. Heimdall takes a seat across from Fury, his posture firm and resolute, shoulders back, knees apart, his hands on his thighs. "It is a pleasure to see you again, one I dared not think I would have."

"Yeah, well," Fury clears his throat, feeling suddenly somewhat awkward. "I don't take kindly to be taken by surprise."

"Yes, that much I have learned." Heimdall laughs, goddamn the man, it's a beautiful sound.

They're quiet for a moment, just looking at one another. Heimdall's much more handsome up close. He has such warm eyes, and a soft, inviting smile. Fury almost can't imagine such a kind and welcoming face barring the door of a nation. Yet, he can. He has seen the power in this man's stance, the fire in his eyes. Yes, he can imagine Heimdall as a warrior. Suddenly he wants to see it himself.

It takes him a moment to realize he's just been staring all this time, and that Heimdall's smile has become a smirk. Then the waitress appears from nowhere, and neither of them have the time to comment.

When she's gone, Fury finds his voice.

"So, does this count as accepting your apology?" He starts.

"It shall, if you have forgiven me." Heimdall inclines his head. "You are not Asgardian, though I find I see in you all the traits our people consider most honorable. But I fear in forgetting our differences, I have further offended you. I apologize."

"No, it's – fine." He finds himself saying, hardly knowing it's himself. He sounds so unsure. Since when does Nick Fury speak with anything but utter surety, without the meanest scrap of self-doubt? "I get what you were trying to do. Thank you. And I do accept it."

Heimdall beams at that, and Fury certainly does not feel his heart skip a beat. That was just a palpitation. And an elevated heart beat for no apparent reason. He obviously needs to see a cardiologist about this.

"And what of my request?" Heimdall begins again. This time, he's the one who seems almost tentative, nervous. "Have you considered it?"

Now, Fury can't help but laugh. "You – you're still interested?" Heimdall gives a firm nod, and he looks like Thor, when he's being so heartfelt and sincere that seems so silly but it's ridiculously endearing. Apparently it's a shared Asgardian thing. "After I shot at you? And ignored you for two weeks? And threw all your gifts in the trash?"

"You doubted my sincerity, and I do not fault you for it." Heimdall just smiles. "If such displays were enough to deter me, I would not be worthy of courting you at all."

How is this man even real? Fury finds himself wondering, dumbstruck and wide eyed. How can he really be sitting here, a goddamn Disney Prince if there ever was one, saying this shit to Nick Fury of all the people in the world?

"But," Heimdall begins again, gaze drifting to the table top. "I would respect your wishes. If you do not desire this, say so, and I shall leave you be."

"You make it sound so simple." The Director scoffs. "As if this isn't the most ridiculous shit. You're an Asgardian! A human life is a blink to you, and I'm hardly a spring chicken."

"No, you are not a chicken at all." The utter befuddlement on the man's face stops Fury in his tracks.

"It's – it's a phrase. I mean, I'm not young anymore."

"Ah," Now, he appears somewhat embarrassed, smiling nervously. "I see." It's… endearing. This age-old warrior, acting like a fumbling teenager. Wearing human clothes that are much too small, hunching over a table in a ridiculous tavern. And he's doing it all for him. To court him! This handsome, powerful, immortal man wants to court him.

It's impossible to believe. It's a dream, and it's happening right before his eyes.

"Director Fury?" Heimdall seems concerned now, golden eyes narrowed upon him.

Fury was speaking a moment ago, wasn't he? Yeah, he was. Only he's lost his train of thought now. So, he thinks of something to say. And it comes naturally.

"It's Nick." He says. "Short for Nicholas."

Heimdall's smile brightens, and with the spark in his eyes, he almost seems to glow. "Very well, Nick-Short-For-Nicholas."

"No, that's not –"

"I ask again," He continues. "Would you allow me the honor of courting you?"

When Nick Fury was a kid, he wanted to be a hero.

Good, evil, it's not so clear-cut in reality as in the movies. In his many years, he's had to allow travesties, to prevent catastrophes. Murdered to save lives. Stolen to protect what's valuable. He wouldn't call himself a good man, and he knows damn well history won't, but he's at peace with his life most nights.

But there are times, in those lulls between here and there, coming and going, the moments when there's nothing to do but let your mind wander and wait, that he considers the impossible. Retirement. A family. Friends. Somebody to come home to, anybody at all.

He tries not to think about those things too often. It hurts, more than he'd like to admit, thinking of what he can't have.

Because of his job, he and his loved ones will always be in danger.

_But how much danger can human threats ever pose to an Asgardian?_

Because of his position, he'll always be keeping secrets, putting the job first.

_The Gatekeeper of Asgard probably knows a thing or two about secret-keeping and putting his duties before his desires._

Because of his life, he'll never have the time.

_And yet, here they are._


	2. Movement One

_Under the dim lights of the tavern, Nick meets Heimdall's glowing gaze, and he remembers all those unrealized fantasies. Possible futures that could never possibly be. In the flash of an instant, a thousand reasons to say no flew through his mind and yet every time, those little whimsies pushed them aside. Waking up next to someone in bed. Making breakfast in the kitchen with someone else. Quick coffee breaks between meetings. Having someone to tell "I'm alive" at the end of a crisis, someone to actually fucking care._

_He meets Heimdall's eyes, and he says yes._

* * *

Working for SHIELD, Nick Fury tends to go days, even weeks, without a moment's pause to simply breathe and think for a while.

Usually, he appreciates that. His life hasn't always been one he'd like to reflect upon, and reflection usually brought with it more pain and irritation than he cared for. It was… rather empty, his life. And who wanted to return home at the end of the day to think about the vacancy of their life? So, yes, typically, Nick liked how busy his work kept him, how tired and drained he was.

Typically.

But today, and for the last few days, Nick has found himself wanting a moment to just sit and think about everything that's happened, about – about these huge changes he's found himself contemplating.

He's… being courted.

Well, to start with, Nick has no idea what courtship of any kind, let alone Asgardian courtship, really entails. That night at the bar, he'd said as much to his… courter? His – whatever. Heimdall. The man had just smiled and told him, he'd see, which did nothing to rest the worries in Nick Fury's mind.

Fury does not like being unprepared. In the field he works in, unprepared means dead. So, yes, having no idea what to expect, and when has him… on alert. He's – nervous. Fidgety. Anxious, even. And Nick Fury does not like being nervous, fidgety, and anxious.

That night, Heimdall had beamed at him, with those handsome bright eyes, and beautiful smile, expressed his joy at being given "this marvelous chance", and soon after returned home. A week had passed since then, and not a peep had been heard from the man. Nick has no idea what to think. A whole week of silence.

Okay, the man has a job, a life. Surely he has things to do. He can't just pop down and see Nick any old time. Still, the silence, on top of his own worries, is driving him mad. He's – unsure. Of what to do, what to expect. Why did he agree to this anyway?

By the Friday after their first… date, maybe? Nick has had enough. After many hours sitting in his office with nothing to do but review old paperwork, he texts Maria, tells her he's heading out for the night, and leaves for the local library.

It's something of a stretch, to be sure. But it is all he can think to do, so Fury heads to the library, and finds every book he can about the Vikings, the Nords, whoever and whatever might be related to Asgard and Heimdall and those cultures that are sort've, kind've related to them.

In the dim light of long, empty halls, lined with towering shelves and small, square tables, Nick sits to read. He enjoys reading. It is one of the few pass-times he can enjoy between work that distracts him. Keeps him occupied, when his thoughts are dark and his mind antsy. Books can send him to a world faraway where his duties, his failures, his sins, can be forgotten, for a short time.

These books, however, are rather dry, being histories of a civilization long gone. Vikings, he finds, are both like and unlike the Asgardian's he's met. He can certainly see the similarities. But after a few hours reading, he's not sure he's going to find anything helpful.

What he is learning, is – strange. And somewhat upsetting. For instance, he's found that the Vikings had three social classes, supposedly divinely ordained and all descended from Heimdall himself, who spent time on earth sleeping around and fathering the ancestors of the slaves, the common folk, and the upper classes. That was something he could do without knowing for sure.

Sighing, Fury shuts the book and finds he must simply accept that he has no fucking clue what is going to happen, and it is unnerving.

* * *

And that is how he finds himself at the Avengers mansion… again.

"I am not sure I can be of much help to you," Thor begins. Fury can hardly hear him because he's facing the TV, and the music is too loud.

"What was that?"

"Hey, give us a second here, - oh come on!" Clint, on the right of Thor, gives a groan. "Seriously? Okay, this is just embarrassing. I'm supposed to be lighter on my feet than you are." The screen is giving him some kind of failure rating, that much Fury can tell, but the noise – god, it's obnoxious.

"All warriors must be well trained in foot work!" Thor declares with a laugh, stepping off the DDR pad.

"Are you children done?" Fury crosses his arms. "I swear, I thought this was the Avengers base, not a frat pad."

"It's a little of both to be honest." Clint says as he crashes back into the couch cushions, picking up the TV remote. "Besides, Thor wants to learn about his new home, and who am I to deny him?"

"I didn't realize obnoxious video games were so important."

"Obnoxious video games are all that's important."

Thor, glancing between both of them, laughs, before waving Fury towards the dining table in the center of the large room. "Sit, friend, let us talk," He has a bottle of water in his hand, and is wearing a tank top and baggy sweatpants. It's a strangely domestic scene, and once again Fury wonders how he ended up in this situation.

"So, what can you tell me?"

"Not much." Thor admits with a shrug. "Though I would like to. Our customs vary; I am of the royal house, the noble class, and our courtship customs are quite unlike those of the warrior class."

"Heimdall, he's a warrior, then?" Not a noble. Or could one be both? Frowning, Fury clenches his hands, and tries to settle the tightness in his chest. It's a little hard to breath.

"Yes, though when he was chosen as guardian of the realm, he was raised to noble class." Thor explains. "But I doubt he would forgo his own practices."

"And you don't know anything about those?" Sighing quietly, Nick feels the tension radiating down his spine. Back to square one. This is just great.

"Fret not, friend Fury," Thor laughs suddenly, patting the man's shoulder so hard Fury's chair scoots sideways, and the room spins a little. "We Asgardians are not so intimidating, are we?"

"No," Fury chokes. "Course not."

"Our practices are simple, meant only to ensure that the people involved may share a long and happy life together. There is nothing to be frightened of."

"I am not frightened!" Fury insists, feeling heat rise to his face.

Clint, from the couch, leans backward to look over Thor's shoulder. "You look a little frightened."

Nick stands and storms from the room, heart pounding, refusing to admit to himself that they're both right.

* * *

Nick never dated much as a kid. Sure, he had a date or two, took a girl to the movies once. When he was older, and he had the chance, he had some dalliances with men too, in quiet hideaways and illicit locations. But there was nothing in his past that really gave him any context for this. Even if Heimdall was not an alien from the Rainbow Realm, or whatever, Nick would still be very much out of his depth.

Nick Fury does not like being out of his depth.

He prepares for every possibility, every outcome, and makes four or five back up plans for each situation. He is always prepared. To – to be so ill prepared, so ignorant, for something so important…

What if he screws it up?

Nick would like to say that this is all nothing important, a distraction, but he can't lie to himself for long. This feels… very important. Like an opportunity he almost missed, come back for a second chance. And he knows this is his last chance. If this thing with Heimdall doesn't work out… he'll be spending his life alone.

It's a lot to risk, and he knows so little.

He tries to calm himself by focusing on his job, by going through the routine, telling himself his own happiness and his personal life don't matter. Look at the big picture. Deal with reality. He tells himself those things every night at bed, swallows them down like bitter pills, and sleeps a restless, dream-filled sleep.

And nine days after their first "date", Heimdall comes back.

* * *

"What do you know?"

Maria Hill stands to Fury's left; on his right, a younger agent stands guard at the door. It is only the three of them, in this room. It would be fewer, if Nick thought they could spare the guard. This is risky enough as is.

"Three months ago," Hill starts, stepping around the holographic map in front of them. "Our target, who we've been tracking since the incident twenty five years ago, vanished off the face of the planet." She sighs, crossing her arms. "No bio readings, no trace whatsoever. Our guards and surveillance saw him simply disappear from one of the laboratories under his building."

"Great," Nick sighs, leaning forward to put his hands on the table. "When did our Houdini reappear?"

"A few months ago. He was gone for a few days, a week tops." Hill continues. She waves her hand over the map, and it transforms into a holographic tower. "He's been holed up in his building ever since. Our security measures suddenly vanished; he caught on to everything, the bugs, our plants, everything. It was too sudden and wide spread for it to be coincidence."

"He knew we were watching," Nick starts. "And didn't care if we knew he knew." Which meant he has something up his sleeve, some trump card, that gives him the guts to stand up to SHIELD. Fan-fucking-tastic.

"Exactly," Maria nods. "But something's changed. A week ago, he scheduled an appointment with the CEO of Stark Industries." Their gazes meet at that. "He plans on meeting her personally in a few days."

"What are the chances he'll actually go himself?"

"Not sure." She says. "But we can't miss this opportunity. If he's up to old tricks, we need to know."

She's right. And more than that, Nick knows what he has to do. "We watch for his appearance. If – when – he leaves that building, you let me know immediately. I want people following his every footstep, if he so much as blinks, I want to know."

"And what about the building, sir?"

Standing up straight, Fury nods. "I'll search that myself."

"Sir?"

He merely glances her way. "You have your orders." After a moment, she nods, and stalks off. Fury turns back to the table, to the holographic tower that reads "OsCorp", and frowns.

What is he doing, after all this time?

Sighing, Fury leaves the room, returning to his other work, and thoughts of Oscorp fall to the back of his mind.

* * *

Night has long since fallen by the time Nick Fury returns home.

It has been a very long day; and when he pulls into his driveway, Fury sinks into the seat and lets out a heavy sigh. The worries and cares so carefully hidden through the day become clear upon his face, haggard and weary. Times like these, Fury finds he sympathizes greatly with that old Greek legend, the one about Atlas.

Stepping out of the car, Fury gets his briefcase, locks the trunk, turns – and sees Heimdall standing on his doorstep.

He's not in his Asgardian clothes, like he was when they first met. No, he's in human attire once again. Only this time, it is clearly obvious that he raided Tony Stark's closet. His jeans and shirt are much too tight, for one, and for another, both are covered in oil stains and burns. The shirt reads "ACDC", and outlines his well-defined torso.

Perhaps catching him staring, Heimdall appears… self-concious for a moment. "I – apologize." He starts. "I have yet to make a Midgardian wardrobe of my own, and my arrival here tonight went somewhat less… planned than I had hoped." He steps down from the front porch, towards Fury. "I was running out of time, and Stark offered his assistance."

Fury takes it in once more, before forcing his eyes to rise to Heimdall's face. "Running out? Is there a time limit to these things?"

"Perhaps we could talk inside?" Heimdall replies, stepping to Fury's side. "If I may come in?"

If he may – as if Fury's gonna keep him out in the cold. He snorts, but says nothing, moving to the door, and Heimdall seems to take that as acceptance, if his figure following behind means anything.

They step through the front hall into the living room. Fury sets his briefcase on the coffee table, and quickly falls into the nearest armchair. His aches and pains are being sharply felt, and even sitting is an agony in itself.

"Are you all right?"

He opens his eyes – Heimdall is sitting across from him, elbows resting upon his knees, dark eyes glimmering under the dim light. Nick lifts a hand to his face, rubs at his temple. This is all so much like a dream. Half the time, he expects to wake up, for Heimdall to be a figment of his foolish imagination.

"Long day." He finally says, dropping his hands. "You have those in Asgard?"

"Oh, yes," Heimdall chuckles, his voice deep and sardonic, and it sends a thrill through Fury's chest, tightens his throat. Damn it all – when did he become a hormonal teenager again? "If I understand your meaning."

"By your tone, I think you do."

They fall silent. It's not awkward or tense, but Fury finds he needs to fill the air with something. He's had so many unanswered questions these last few days, and here is his chance to have him answered. But now that the man sits before him, he finds himself speechless. He has no idea what to say. Is there a polite way to ask, "What the fuck do we do now?"

"I imagine you must have many questions." Heimdall says finally. "I cannot say I will answer all of them, but I shall try."

"And why not?"

He smiles. "Knowing what I know of you, I am sure you wish to know everything and anything about our courtship and how it will occur. You would take all the mystery out of it, and where is the fun in that?"

The mystery? He's been stewing in his juices, worried out of his mind this whole week, and here this man is talking about – fuming, Fury opens his mouth to shoot back with something sharp; only he catches himself. There's a gleam in Heimdall's eye, bright and whimsical. "You're – teasing me."

"Yes, I am." Heimdall laughs again, a sound like bells. "Is that so strange?"

Well… yes. Sighing, Fury stands, needing to move suddenly, trying to ignore the heat rising to his face. "I'm not fond of bullshit." He says, striding into the kitchen. He very much needs a drink right now.

"Then, I promise that none of my courtship gifts shall be comprised of feces of any kind."

When he turns, Heimdall is stand just behind him, his smile transformed into something sly, hands tucked behind his back. He – he is teasing. This is banter. And while Nick might joke with Hill from time to time, and might shoot back at Stark or some of the other Avengers when they get mouthy, there's always a line drawn. He's the director. Very few people will dare push his buttons.

Startled, Fury hesitates, stuck motionless before his suitor. His gaze meets Heimdall's, and he stares into those gleaming golden orbs and realizes, he has no idea what to do. He's – dumbstruck. It has been so long, years beyond counting, that he's had anything like this, that he has no idea what to do. It's not just the possibility of romance, it's the very personal nature of it. Friends, family, lovers – he has none. Has had none for decades.

Nick isn't sure he knows how to do this, how to… behave like a human being, with thoughts and feelings, again.

"Sir Fury?"

Startled again, Nick frowns at the name. It is enough to awaken him. "Didn't I already tell you my name?" He turns to the fridge, pulling out a beer.

"Ah, yes. Nick-short-for-Nicholas."

"Nick. Just Nick." He insists, standing and closing the door. He gestures with the beer. "Want one?"

Heimdall shakes his head. "I am fine."

Yes, yes you are, Nick finds himself thinking, a very juvenile response which once again has him cursing his foolishness. This is so ridiculous. Yet, it makes him feel so – so warm.

They return to the living room, sit once again at the same places, and Fury gives a deep sigh after his first sip. He doesn't do this often. His job means he must be aware and alert at any moment, awaiting the first sign of trouble. But, tonight, he will allow himself this. He thinks he'll need it to get through this conversation.

"So, are you going to tell me anything," Fury begins, leaning forward. "Or am I going to have to go into this with both eyes closed?"

"Forgive me, I was only jesting." He says, holding up a hand. The way he speaks, it's ridiculous and flowery, but it is lovely. Fury remembers a few tomes of poetry on his shelves, and is hit suddenly with the thought of hearing that voice recite some of his favorite lines. Ooh my. A possibility for another day, perhaps. "I would not have you enter into this agreement unprepared."

"Good." Fury says, taking another sip. "Because I wouldn't let you."

"No, you would not, at that." Heimdall smirks, as if he's – amused, by Fury's temerity, and typically such a sentiment would make him angry. But he doesn't seem to be condescending, or as if he's looking down on him, no; he speaks of Fury with the utmost respect. For the thousandth time since this began, Fury finds himself wondering how in the world this man found him, and decided he was the one of all humanity that he wanted.

"Well, then." Fury motions to the man. "What the fuck is this Asgardian Courtship shit about anyway?"

"It is not – Asgardian, per se." Heimdall begins. He leans forward, and the movement pulls that short, tight shirt up further. It is much too small, and the thin line of skin revealed between his top and his jeans is a testament to that. "Within Asgard, various classes and families have their own traditions. As I was born a warrior, I adhere to the traditions of the warrior class."

"Thor told me as much, when I asked him," Nick replies. "So, how do warriors go about this?" He takes another sip, then sets the beer down. It's sweltering in here. Standing, he starts to remove his long trench coat. "From what I understand of courting, it can have a whole heap of rules and regulations to keep to."

"Yes, it can, and we do have some." Heimdall replies. Fury tosses his trench coat onto a nearby chair, and then looks to his suitor. The man's eyes – they've fallen low, half lidded, looking upon the skin revealed by the removal of his coat. There is such heat, such want in those eyes, it has his pulse stuttering. God, this is ridiculous. All they've done is look at each other and he feels like he's going to implode.

"Then what are they?" He asks tersely, driven to irritation by this unrealized passion thrumming in his skin. It's made all the more furious now that he sees it is really, truly reciprocated, and as much as he thinks this man must be off his rocker to see anything in him, he's not going to look a gift Asgardian in the mouth. "I'd like to be sure I'm not fucking things up before we even begin."

"They are simple enough." Heimdall says after a pause, thick and heavy. Licks his lips between his words and that is just not fair. "Our courtship has nine movements, nine goals to complete, one for each of the nine realms which the warriors of the Aesir are sworn to protect. Between each, a warrior must wait the allotted time before seeing or speaking to their betrothed again."

Betrothed. Damn, that is a word with weight. Fury's voice almost catches in his throat. "And – what's that time?"

"It varies, beginning with nine days, for the ninth step, and with each step completed, the days drop by a single count."

"Then, eight for eight, seven for seven, so on?" Surprised, Fury lifts an eyebrow. "I thought courtship was supposed to last for months, years even. But with a schedule like that –"

"Our courtship lasts only 45 days." Heimdall confirms, nodding. "We are warriors. Our lives can be short, bittersweet, cut down at any time for our people, our duty. We do not tarry in our rites, because we may not live to see them completed."

Well. By that logic, 45 days almost seems too long. Still… "That's a month and a half." A month and a half, to decide if he cares about this man enough to stay with him for the rest of his days. A month and a half to see if he could love this man. It's – it's fast, for certain… especially since he would only be seeing Heimdall on nine of those days.

Nine days.

"I realize it must be strange for you." Heimdall lowers his gaze, his fingers interwoven together in the air above his legs, arms resting on his thighs. "While I value the ways of my people, I know you are not an Aesir. And I am more than willing to alter what I can for you. You need not give me an answer by the end of these rites – I would not have you rush to make a decision upon which so much stands."

"It's – alright." Fury finds himself saying. "We'll do this your way, and see what happens." It surprises him, how uncaring he is about this. It should worry him beyond reason. Only nine days to decide? Only nine encounters, to know this man well enough to – to - ? "Any other rules I should know about?"

"We must be – discrete, in our affections. As I imagine you have guessed." Heimdall smirks at that, a little depreciatively. "We are allowed to be close, to embrace, perhaps to kiss, but no more than that."

"I saw that one coming." It's like the people who design these things want people to suffer. Fuck. Suddenly, Heimdall laughs, a bright swelling thing that rises like air. "What?"

"It is just – you look so upset!" He grins, lifting a hand to cover his mouth. "Petulant even."

"I'm not – " More laughter interrupts him; it's… sweet, tender, not at all aimed to hurt him. And listening to it, Fury finds himself… endeared. Whatever anger had begun to build inside him dissipates like a pile of leaves caught on the wind. "Okay, maybe a little. Can you blame me?"

"No, I cannot. It is a mighty test of my will to adhere to such rules as well." His voice thickens with those words, eyes darkening, and no one on Earth could go unaffected by that.

Swallowing, Nick takes a moment to find his words. "Right. Well, I guess we'll suffer together?"

Heimdall smirks, heavy with promise and intent. "We shall, until we have to no longer."

"Keep talking like that," Fury starts, mouth dry. "And my resolve won't last the night." God, he is such a smitten little boy, when did the great Nick Fury become this mess of feeling and want? "Anything else I should know?"

"I should tell you how each movement in the courtship shall be." Heimdall tells him. "Every time we meet, there shall be a – challenge, of sorts. I, as the suitor, shall have to perform a task to prove my worth and devotion to you. At the end of each task, you have the chance to deny me, and spurn further courting, or to accept my display, and continue the courtship."

"At the end of the courting period, we must stand before my King, the Lord General of the warrior class, and a member of my family, and I must ask you to formally accept my courtship. If you should accept, then we shall marry in the traditions of my people. In – this case, I could perhaps ask my king for some time –"

"We'll worry about that if it's a problem." Fury waves him off. "For now, we're at the first one right?"

"Movement One, yes."

"And what's that?"

"As a warrior, it is my duty to protect all the realms, and those I love." That word almost seems to solidify in the air, a heavy promise, an ethereal possibility. This is what they're aiming for, after all. It seems so unreal. "First before all else, I must prove I am capable of protecting you."

"Protecting me. Okay. How?"

"If I'm not mistaken," Heimdall begins. "You have a situation on your hands. An old friend, turned enemy, whom you have decided to face on your own." Fury thinks back to a few hours earlier, to the debriefing about Oscorp, and _how in the hell does he know about that? _"Perhaps I could be of some assistance?"

It takes him a minute to speak. "1," He begins, holding up a hand. "We are going to have a very long talk about security and how the hell you got that information. 2," He holds up another finger, then hesitates. "… I could use some back up."


End file.
